The Bad Boy

Pook had the distinct pleasure of being driven to work yesterday in Cab #24. Of course, it would have been heavenly if I had been piloting that fantastic epitome of American engineering, but, alas, I am not a day driver. Her loss. Pook left a present in a cupholder and hoped it would still be there when I got in the van for the night. And it was! It wasn't a golden ticket, sadly, but it was almost as good...I think. Mad Libs! Mad Libs were left for me, and you bet your sweet ass, gentle reader, I filled that puppy out the moment I had free time (unfortunately, I had plenty of that last night). The following is the finished product. The blanks were all filled out blindy, I swear, though some do come out looking like I peeked. I did not. So, without further adieu...

The Bad Boy

You know this type of liver spot well. He wears leather from head to pinkie toe, he rides a fair-weather motorcycle, his wallet is always horrid, and he's sporadically self-involved. You know he isn't the right bullwhip for you, but you can't help the limp-dicked way you feel about him. What's a good helicopter to do? He may not be Ted Williams' severed head material, but what the bucket of shit, you might as well have a proverbial time while it lasts. Just remember to keep things casual and crusty. If you find yourself too attached , end it brutally. And whatever you do, don't give him the opportunity to break your prostate! That, after all, is a bad boy's licentious specialty!